BRENT
by Kerry the Berry
Summary: Holmes chases Brent, a killer guitarist.


He just wanted to become a great musician...ever since he could think he knew he wanted to become a professional guitar player. So he got a guitar - he practised until his fingers bled and his ears were sore.   
Everyone could see that he was very talented. Very very talented.   
Only his parents didn't want to take notice of the fact that all he ever wanted and the only thing he ever could was to play the guitar. They wanted him to mind the business. Make him go the same way his father and his grandfather did and become a renowned wealthy salesman. Working near the harbour - collecting the wares and making new deals - how he hated it. He was only seventeen when he changed all of his parent's further plans.   
After another one of those neverending days at the harbour he couldn't sleep. His first way after work led him to a bar as usual. There he met some of his friends. They were happier than he was. They could live their lives and didn't have to struggle inside a nightmarish spiderweb their parents had woven around them. He couldn't stand it any longer.   
Full of hate and ale he made his way back home. He still lived with his parents. They were asleep already. He could hear his father snore as he entered the house. Slowly closing the door behind him he hung up his jacket, lay his hat at the cupboard and reached for his guitar. It was standing inside the cupboard. His parents had put it there and sealed it. He didn't care about the seal anymore - now they could see that he played his guitar again. They had forbade him to touch the guitar again because he practised "too vain" as they used to say. He broke open the seal and took his guitar. He kissed it lewdly and clutched it in his hands. Running upstairs to his parent's bedroom he slowly opened their door, creeped inside the dark shadows of the pale moon to the foot of their bed and raised his guitar high above his head. And just as he was about to smash the guitar upon the centre of the bed his father woked up screaming "STOP! Wait a minute! What do you think you're doing! That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!!" And he said "God damn it daddy! You know I love you - but you've got a lot to learn about real guitar players!!!" He held his guitar up until his father believed he'd drop it - just in this one moment of pure faith and trust in his son the boy smashed the guitar against his father's forehead. Slowly sinking his father fell on his pillow. Blood tinged the once so pure white into a dark red. His mother all in fear, having seen what had happened tried to run away. But she didn't get far. 

Brent, that's his story. All the staff of Broadmoor were astonished when hearing it. Not that they wouldn't have to handle such things and such criminals all of the time - it just seemed a bit unreal to them. Especially when he demanded his guitar. This very one! Being a piece of evidence it was of course impossible for them to give it to him. He moaned its loss every single day since he had been brought to Berkshire's most famous prison for lunatics - Broadmoor. Now Brent wasn't the kind of prisoner hard to keep, he was polite in a way, even flattering at times. He had a way with women. He always had. The last 10 years spent in Broadmoor no one ever could say one bad word about his behaviour. A role model for all the others or someone to just get jealous at - but no one capable of trying to kill a doctor just for a cheap escape. Or was he? Now it had happened. Dr. Bellamy was dead. Lying queer over his desk, a statuette standing out of his back and chest, so he can be seen inside his room. His last patient was Brent and Brent is gone now. The window is open, he could have easily sprung out and landed a bit abruptly at the meadow. All of the other doctors and nurses had gathered around Dr. Bellamy and couldn't believe what just happened. Some doctor took a look at the oozing blood dripping down the floor and that opened window and said: "He wanted to get away. It's obvious."

  
Meanwhile somewhere in the middle of a forest. Brent takes a look at his naked chest, all hairy and blood smudged and sighs lowdly. His black trousers is blood stained too. How can he flee now? Once and for all? Ten years of imprisonment were long enough - he'd rather kill himself than to go back again. The wilderniss seems to huge for him - he's all used to small patted cells and even smaller rooms he needed whenever nature called. And it's all so glaring. Shrill bird's songs others may would enjoy make Brent shiver.   
He crutches in fear. He tries to protect his head with his long hairy arms. His long greyish-brown hair reaches down to the ground when crutching like this and it gets dirty at the tips now. He doesn't care. Looking like he does now he won't get far. He knows it. Something has to happen. Now. He gets up wearily...some steps ahead he starts to shake again and stops abruptly. What's that in front of him? An animal? A human being? He knows he can't trust his eyes anymore because they aren't used to longer distances any longer. The only thing he could see was a blank white wall for the last ten years. He can't see what's there. He just sees colours and a lining of a body or something. Crawling forward he wants to find out what it is...the high grass is cold and wet as it touches his chest...it stings as he begins to move faster...this is a woman. Yes, the opportunity he has been hoping for! A young lady of around 25, looking lonely and lost. Maybe not as lost as he wanted her to be - but it should be worth the try he thought to himself. He reluctantly raised from his crouching position and walked towards the young lady. Only now he could see that she was a sight for sore eyes: long reddish hair flowing past her back, a lean pale face with a sensuous mouth and the most admirable eyes he had ever seen - and these were staring at him in this very moment. "Excuse me. You must have got me in very bad circumstances. As you can see I don't look all too tidy." The young lady glanced at him - looking at his beautiful hairy chest she noticed blood and took some steps back. Then she came closer again. She looked into his blueish eyes, they were tender as can be and looked as soothingly as she could.   
"What has happened to you, Mister?" she asked a bit shy. "You see I was told to cut down a tree and something must have gone wrong...it hit me."   
"Oh my God, I am so sorry. What can I do for you? Are you hurt?"   
"No, I don't think so. I'll be okay. If you just helped me get home again."   
"Of course. Where to?"

Some hours later. Back in London. Brent's hometown. He hadn't seen it in ten years and he was about to kiss the pavement so joyfully was he at the sight of his old home. But that one precious moment of undisturbed happiness shouldn't blur Brent's mind - he has to vanish amongst the millions of people without leaving one trace behind. First of all he needs to change clothes. Brent walks past a hansom and crosses the street. He's at the harbour again. The place which let him suffer. Shuddering in painful memories he turns away and walks into a lonely alley where he crouches down and waits for a pedestrian to cross his vile plans. Brent doesn't have to wait for very long: there's a man turning into the empty alley: wearing a brown hat, a black jacket and neat trousers he seems to be perfect. Brent wonders if the clothes would fit him because the man looks a bit stout. But still he comes closer - now Brent has to react! He quickly grabs the man's case and smashes it across his head even before his victim notices him. The man sinks down, in a hurry Brent undresses him and takes off his blood stained trousers to change between the two of them. Brent is very surprised as he sees the scattered contents of the case he just swung around the ears of the now unconscious man: broken syringes, bottles, cards and a stethoscope. This man has to be a doctor. Brent's fed up with doctors. Angrily he kicks the man in the stomach before he turns away and leaves.

"Has he not returned yet?" Mrs. Hudson asks in a weak voice.  
"No sign of Watson since yesterday I'm afraid." Holmes gets up and walks across the room with a sunken head full of thoughts. The room is almost completely filled with Holmes' tobacco smoke. He must have been smoking heavily for hours.   
"What will we do now?" Mrs. Hudson still standing between angle and door looks very depressed.   
"He was on duty as usual. A couple of home visits and some hours in the surgery. We're going to have to look him up. He can't be very far."  
"Oh I so much wish you are right, Mr. Holmes!" Sobbing, Mrs. Hudson leaves the room before her tears start to fall. 

"Let's see..." Holmes falls into his armchair, crosses his legs and strokes his chin with one hand, with the other he holds his pipe. After a while he hears a knock at the front door. It's opened, probably by Mrs. Hudson who now starts to cry in joy. "He's back! Oh, but look what they've done to him!!!" 

Hastily Holmes throws his pipe aside and runs down the stairs. A little astonished he takes a closer look at his dear friend Watson who looks like he had lately met with the wrong patients. "I see you've been beaten up" Holmes says causing Watson a weary grin. "Everyone could deduct that, Holmes..."  
"I never said I was a sorcerer. Nevertheless I can see that someone swung your case at you and most of its contents have broken before you fell at them. The rascal undressed you and swapped his clothes with your's. But now come inside. You must be awfully cold."

"Yes, I am..." Watson proclaims in a most pleasant way. Back in their rooms Watson warms himself at the fire while Holmes sits stretched in his armchair looking at Watson.

"Now tell me what happened." he says offering Watson a pipe. Watson takes it with delight, turns to the fire again and answers: "You see I was on my way to a visit. A child with feverish cramps was awaiting my help as I turned into upper Thames street seeking that address. All of a sudden someone took my case and I heard a loud bang, my head began to swirl and I must have fainted. After I awoke I was wearing this strange blood stained trousers and all of my clothes were gone. My scattered instruments reminded me on what had happened and I tried to get out of this street again. Then I called a carriage and here I am again. I have a terrible pain in my stomach, Holmes. Could you hand me my glass of comfort?" 

Holmes takes a bottle of Sherry and a glass from up the cupboard and pours a bit of the Sherry in the glass. 

He walks over to Watson and hands him his drink. "Here you are. You're completely coloured down your belly, my dear friend." Watson looks at himself and notices that he really is black and blue. He curses silently, nips from his drink and says: "That son of a bitch must have hit me while I was unconscious."

"Yes, he obviously did. And now let me see those trousers. Perhaps I don't even have to see upper Thames street at all.."

Watson removes the trousers and hands it over to Holmes. He examines it carefully - turns it around and takes a look inside where he finds a little inscription saying "property of Broadmoor prison". "You've been beaten up by a lunatic, my dear friend" Holmes explains by pointing out the inscription of the trousers. Meanwhile Watson put on another pair of trousers - this time one of his. "This one fits quite better" he says smiling at Holmes.   
"Let's pay Broadmoor prison a visit. I'm all hungered out for a new case and it looks as if this was a fortunate chance-meeting. You and that lunatic. What a most wonderful coincidence."   
"If it keeps you from taking drugs again I know that I haven't been beaten up in vain." exclaims Watson as he eyeballs Holmes' most recent hiding-place for cocaine and morphine. Holmes doesn't look very impressed neither does it even seem to interest him what his friend has just said. He takes his cape, wraps it over his body and leaves the room.

At the same time somewhere in London. Brent is sitting on a bench at the harbour. The place where he had to suffer and learn what he was meant for. Not for playing the guitar but for becoming a good salesman like his father and his grandfather and so many generations before him who bore the name of Rockman. Rockman, that name shimmered slightly from out of the water as Brent looked into the depth. 'Must be one of these old boxes' he thought to himself. Never again would he touch one of those things again. But he needed to feel something familiar. Something that he wanted to feel for longer than 10 years. It was 1894. The last time he could hold his guitar was ten years ago. Far too long. The crave for his guitar became stronger now that he knew he was practically free. He just did not know where they put his guitar after all that happened. They said it was a piece of evidence. The guitar was blood red and it still would be. Would it? Blood dripping from over the six strings, its well endowed body and its straight, soft neck. It was almost a love affair. Brent never needed any girlfriend as soon as he held his guitar. It was the only lover he could trust. The only love that would never fade away or turn into anger and hate. Yes, Brent knew how it was with women. He always had a girlfriend. Even in school when he was only 16 years old. The girls loved his hair and his looks. 'What has become of me?' Brent asked himself as he caught a glimpse of his face in the wavy reflecting water. His once beautiful hair had turned grey, his features got hard and desperate looking. And yet he was still very attractive. No one would believe that he was only 27 though. He looked at least like 35. But he was only 27. And until now he only lived for 17 years. He would never go back to Broadmoor again. Rather he would die than going back and spending the rest of his damned life there. In prison. Under strong medication and doctors who didn't care about him at all. They just wanted new results for their tests. Test this test that. They tested everything on him and they never got tired of coming up with new, even more cruel methods to break him. And already he was broken. They just didn't seem to notice the fact that he wasn't a person any longer. He had become a machine. They pressed a button and got a result. He couldn't think anymore. He forgot who he was. For days he was unable to say what he was - a human being - a tool - a machine? What ever they did with him they never cared what become of their subject. Would he finally turn into a monster? Would he try to break free or would he fall apart completely? Thoughts were the only refuge for years. 10 long years, he only knew that he was 27 now and it all happened as he was 17. That was the only indication of how long he had to suffer in Broadmoor. 'Why not killing myself?' In one second that thought had appeared and hardened in his mind. Would he have much of a future anyway? If he tried to get away he wouldn't come far, would he? 

"Mr. Holmes! We hoped that you would hear what happened and we prayed that you would come!" cries a doctor at Holmes' appearance inside the big hall of the Broadmoor prison.   
"Indeed, I have heard what happened. First hand knowledge. So, which one was it?"  
"Which one? Ah, you mean the prisoner. Brent Rockman. One of our long-time-prisoners. He killed his parents with a guitar 10 years ago and he has been here ever since his trial. Yesterday he murdered one of our best doctors, Dr. Bellamy. I think it was for the best if I showed you his room. That's where Brent commited his third murder."

After having examined the whole room including some of the blood stains which proofed of the horrific incident the day before, Holmes asked for Brent Rockman's papers.   
He reads through them most carefully. After a while he says: "I know where to find him."

Returning to Baker Street 221b Holmes wants Watson to come with him for further investigations. "Have you ever heard of the famous Rockman family?" he says as he opens the front door of his living room. Watson frowns. "No...but yes. Of course! You mean it was their son who beat me up? Was it him who fled from Broadmoor?"   
"I knew that you would have heard of that story too. The newspapers were full of it for months. The First of October 1884. Brent Rockman killed his parents with a guitar. Would you mind coming with me to find this juvenile guitar assassin?" 

  


Back on the streets of London. Holmes is calling for an hansom while Watson takes a look around. "Where are we going, Holmes?" he asks. Holmes enters the hansom, Watson follows him in. "We pay Brent a visit." "But how come you know so exactly where he is?" "My dear Watson...just sit down and see what happens." 

The hansom which will convey two rather unconvenient men is already on its way to the harbour as Brent gets a nudge on his left shoulder. "Hello, I think we met before. You look so different from yesterday." Brent turns around and sees the young lady from whom he took a ride as he flew from Broadmoor prison. Her long red hair and her sensuous lips - all that strikes him like a lightning bolt and he starts shivering just as he wanted to answer.   
"Are you cold, Mister? Have I asked for your name already? I don't think so. May I introduce myself: my name is Zoki Mausmäki."  
"Hmmm?"  
"Oh yes, I'm sorry. I always forget that my name doesn't sound like, well probably, yours. I'm from Finland. Rather strange when you take a look at my hair. Looks a bit more danish or scottish perhaps, doesn't it?"   
Startled by that sudden whirl of questions and information he utters a just hardly understandable "yes".   
"So, and may I ask for your name now?"   
"Yes sorry...of course...my name is....when did you come here?"   
"I asked first but if you really are in such a hurry...I came here 5 years ago. I was just 21 back then. I wanted to try my luck in a big city."   
"5 years that's fine...my name is Brent." Zoki shakes his hand friendly. Now Brent gets up and seeks help in Zoki's deep dark eyes.   
"Tell me, what troubles you?"   
"I have to get away, Zoki. I'm not save here. There are many rascals in the city as you should know and I really have a problem. They want to get rid of me."   
"Oh, I see. Is there anything I can do for you? You know, my friend here loans boats and if we hurry he might still have one for you."   
Brent rummages through his pockets but all he can find are 50 pounds. 'That won't be enough' he assures himself but he follows the girl nevertheless. "This is Joe, an excellent friend of mine." Zoki introduces the both of them and smiles at Brent.   
"I hope he can be of help to you."   
"Oh yes, me too" he answers. Brent smiles back at Zoki just as the hansom turns up. Sherlock Holmes jumps out of the cabin in a hurry and runs right at Brent and his two newly found friends. Watson follows with a gun in his hand. Suddenly Brent catches Zoki at her wrists, turns her around and presses her back against his chest by clutching her by the throat. He grips for the knife in her jacket he has already seen before and takes it firmly to her throat. He loosens his grip, but only a bit so that Zoki can breathe again.   
"One step closer Mr. Holmes, and she'll be dead! And you, drop your weapon! I warn you."  
Like in trance Watson throws his gun aside. Holmes doesn't get closer now either - he stops halfway and tries to calm down Brent: "No one is going to hurt you, Brent. Leave the lady to us and we will see what we can do for you."   
"What you can do for me?"   
Slowly Brent walks into one of the bigger boats, dragging Zoki with him. She gasps silently as he fumbles around with his knife in front of her face and throat.   
"You see, you can not do a thing for me. Do you know what they are doing in Broadmoor? Do you know, my dear cunning friend Mr. Holmes?"   
"This will not make things easier."  
"I know! Hey, you boatsdude. Get in here and start the engine! And you Mr. Holmes: stay away! I warn you for the very last time." Zoki's friend does as he is said and gets into the boat. He starts the engine and waits for further instructions.   
"There's a boy....thank you very much, Joe. Mr. Holmes, I know that I won't get far with you in my back. But do you really believe that I could give in now? Do you really believe that I could return to Broadmoor?!? If you interfere with my plan she's going to die. Zoki is such a pretty thing, isn't she?" From behind Watson is crying "In a way!" while Holmes stands there like a statuette gazing at Brent.   
"I'm sure you're going to follow me. If you won't find me in time, you will find me dead. That's a promise. And now Joe: head south or east or whatever...."   
Joe does his best to do as Brent has ordered. Brent sees that he obeys and loosens his grip once more so that Zoki can feel a bit more comfortable if that is possible in such a situation.   
"Watson, let us leave. We will find Brent and the others and I already now how." The boat is getting out of reach, Holmes turns around to see Watson picking up his gun from the ground.   
"What are you going to do now? Time is running up for Zoki and Joe."   
"I know."

Back in Baker Street 221b, Holmes calls for the "Baker Street Irregulars". They run up the stairs, knock on the door and Wiggins enters the room. "I want you to look out for a big ship. Red stripes upon its two flags by the left side, this is how you will recognize it. Tell me as soon as you found it." "Yes Sir..." Wiggins leaves. 

mine is the copyright :-) 

© Kerry Bernauer


End file.
